


Dernhelm Takes A Wife

by Lasgalendil



Series: Starlight and Song [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Elf Culture & Customs, F/M, Hobbit Culture, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Interspecies, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, M/M, No one likes the Noldor, One True Pairing, Protective Siblings, Siblings, Wedding Night, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-06 00:16:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4200600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elf loves Dwarf.<br/>Dwarf loves Elf.</p><p>...wherein Éowyn gets married, Faramir gets harried, and decidedly-drunk Éomer makes some revelations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dernhelm Takes A Wife

The Denethorson has no idea what he’s gotten himself into, of this much I am certain.

“Remember: Dress. Sheet. Cloak.”

“And the knife?” The Denethorson asks.

“Oh, no,” I say. “The knife she keeps.”

“Some sort of symbol?” he asks weakly.

“The knife,” I explain to this Gondorian lord as I might to a dim-witted child, “is for her to stab your back with, if ever you betray her.”

“Oh, and, I will be right here. All night. Should you think of…hurting her, as is some men’s wont, just remember my dirk shall be through your bowels while you’re yet inside her. Good night.”

“…oh, and Man of Gondor?”

He gulps.

“Fuck her loudly. Fuck her well.”

She is next. And not nearly so shy.

“Here you are, sweet sister.” I present her with the Denethorson’s knife.

“Oh, dear brother,” she smirks. “We won’t be needing that.” And off she shucks her dress, quick as you please, now naked before us.

The Dwarf grunts appreciably. The Elf makes no comment on the matter.

[The Elf is fucking the Dwarf (or vice versa?). I am sure of it]

The Hobbit grins like an idiot and claps his hands gleefully at the sight of her tits. I notice her smile and glare my disapproval at Master Hobbytla, who merely sticks out his tongue. And she turns—oh, Helm’s Hammer!—she turns to the Ranger-who-would-be-King. “Wish me happiness, my liegelord and my ruler.”

He mutters some nonsense about wanting her to be happy. “No niggard are you, Eomer, to give unto Gondor what is fairest in your realm.”

[Wonder if his own Elf ever treats him to a sight like that.]

“As do I…” I tell her lazily. “Although I fear what awaits you inside is more sheep than stallion.”

“Sheep, stallion…” she smiles, “under the right rider, who knows?”

Moments later the door opens. The Denethorson. Naked, clutching his own clothes instead of his wife’s. He flushes crimson as the Hobbit and the Dwarf erupt in bawdy laughter. The Elf says nothing. 

[He _is_ fucking the Dwarf. I am sure of it.]

  
“We will speak no more of this,” he says swiftly, before the bright arms of my dear, sweet sister drag him back to their waiting bed.

“This looks, Master Dwarf, Elf, Hobbytla, and Ranger, to be a very entertaining night."

“You speak this way to your King, then?” The Man laughs.

“Aye. I do. For his is my friend, my only sister is wed, and I am very, very drunk. He will forgive me much this night, I fear. Now come, let us drink to the gods of tits and wine!”

“You have those gods in Rohan?” The Hobbytla asks curiously when were have finished our (not nearly the first of many) draughts.

“They have those gods everywhere,” the Dwarf grunts appreciatively.

The Elf, again, says nothing.

“They’ve gone awful quiet,” the Hobbit yawns, sometime later. “Think they’re sleeping already?”

“You’d think he’d last longer than that,” the Dwarf puffs his own pipe in answer.

“No,” the Elf speaks for what may be the first time all evening. “He sings to her of Luthien, the fair.” We, as one, lean forward eagerly. Perhaps the Elf won’t be as bloody useless as I’d thought.

“And?” The Hobbytla asks. “What does she say?”

“I would not repeat it.”

“Awww,” the Hobbytla pulls out his pipe. “What’s the point in dragging an Elf along, anyways?”

“There they go again,” The Dwarf grunts. “He’s not doing so bad, to make a maid squeal so.”

“It isn’t the maid doing the squealing,” I say. We drink to that.

“This is a strange custom,” the Elf states.

“Drinking?" I wonder, "or that men should celebrate a marriage thus?”

“That you should do so secreted behind closed doors as if ashamed, and indeed hidden from the gods and stars when all might bear witness.”

“You—Elf weddings—they WATCH?” My sister’s Hobbytla asks, dumbfounded.

“Why should they not?”

The Dwarf looks uncomfortable.

[Fucking.]

“Yeesh, Strider. How’d that go?” this drunken hafling asks the King of Gondor. “You and Arwen alone with all of Rivendell and Lorien looking on, then?”

“The ways of the Wood-Elves of Mirkwood are different from their Noldor kin,” the Ranger replies gravely, before hiding behind an opportune draught. He will make an exceptional (ly boring) diplomat and King. But the ways of the mountains and rivers of Gondor are not the ways of the Riddermark, and I suppose there is the matter of Harad to consider.

“Then let the Noldor be grateful we do neither murder unarmed women nor send their children naked to the forest to starve,” the Elf mutters.

The Dwarf kicks him.

The Elf kicks him back.

[Fucking. Definitely fucking.]

“Fuck’s sake, Elf!” the Dwarf bristles, “He only meant, the Lady Galadriel—“

“Yes, please, Gimli,” the Hobbylta rolls his eyes. “I’m sure Legolas and I would just love to hear more about _the Lady Galadriel_.”

“Durin’s balls!” the Dwarf glowers. “Not you too, Master Meriadoc!”

[Elf and Dwarf _most definitely_ fucking.]

  
The Hobbytla snickers. The Elf's ears flick. The Dwarf grumbles into this drink.  The King, I note, remains his brooding, silent self.

“Have they no such customs in the Shire, Master Hobbytla?” I ask when tempers (and the taming of wild stallions) have toned down.

“Oh, they do. Only it’s less about…well, heritage and all, and more about good fun," he shrugs his small shoulders and puffs his strange pipe. “Usually just a couple close mates, and it usually involves playing music or shouting suggestions through the door until the couple pays to make the ‘well-wishers’ go away.”

“Then by all means, Master Hobbytla, let us partake.”

 

 


End file.
